Arkham Ate My Brain
by Twinings
Summary: There are certain things you come to expect in Gotham. This, however, is not one of them.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer and such: I do not own these characters. They are all property of people much cooler and more powerful than I. And I also don't own the songs in this chapter. Those belong to Neil Cicierega (Lemon Demon.)

I do apologize for the songs. I must admit I included them mainly to up my wordcount, but I do think it's kind of funny, and I can totally see the Joker liking Lemon Demon and forcing his henchmen to learn all the lyrics. (Hey, that's what I would do.) And the first one is important later in the story.

Speaking of things that are funny, I have been asked to put up warnings in my humorous stories, and since rereading this one did result in my computer screen almost getting drenched with a mouthful of tea...here goes.

Warning: Do not consume beverages while reading this story. Readers with asthma should keep their inhalers handy. Please remain seated at all times. If you are unable to remain seated, please attempt to land on something squishy. Women who are pregnant or nursing should not attempt to use this story as a substitute for any of the other things that carry the "pregnant or nursing" disclaimer. If you experience a sudden decrease in laughter, contact your doctor, as this may be a sign of a serious condition.

(-crickets chirp-)

Explanatory note: Near the end of October, I was getting all excited about NaNoWriMo. I had it all planned out; I was going to write "The March Hare," killing two birds with one stone by concluding the story of my OC, Alice Hare, and making my first attempt at a Mad Hatter fic. (I swear, giving her the _perfect_ name for his partner was completely unintentional, but once I saw the connection, I just couldn't resist.) It was going to be so perfect.

And then BiteMeTechie (why, yes, I am assigning blame!) wrote "Night of the Snarky," and I went giggle-giggle-giggle, and the next thing I knew...

* * *

_Arkham Ate My Brain_

The screams woke him up. That was nothing special in Arkham, but this time there was something different about it.

The Scarecrow sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. It wasn't so bad being woken up every single night in this place—at least it could be interesting to catalogue the differences in the sounds of the other inmates' voices—but this time, he felt there was something wrong.

This was not an inmate. The scream was moving. He fumbled for his glasses just as something wet and red thudded against his glass wall.

"Help me! _Sweet Jesus, someone please help me_!"

The Scarecrow put on his glasses and noted vaguely that he was going to need a stronger prescription soon. The darkness of his room didn't make it any easier to see the man in the hall. But he didn't need perfect vision to know what it was that he should be seeing.

It was a mangled corpse.

Only it didn't quite know it yet.

"Help me!" the bloody orderly begged as the Scarecrow calmly got out of bed and padded across the floor toward him.

"You know I can't open the door from inside," he said softly. "What's got you so worked up, then?" He leaned over to stare into the other man's eyes, measuring the dilation.

"They're c-coming…" The orderly slumped to the floor, leaving a thick streak of blood down the surface of the glass. How disappointing. He was quite obviously dead.

He would have liked to make a physical examination of the body, but of course he had no way to get at it. Quite frustrating, really. He knelt down to take as close a look as he could through the thick glass.

"Who or what?" he murmured, noticing for the first time that the man's wounds appeared to have been caused by…teeth. How odd.

He looked up when he heard the sound of footsteps in the darkened hall, shuffling and aimless. He recognized the sound of a wounded person's movement, and yet…that wasn't quite right. This person was limping, but there were no gasps and grunts of pain, no pauses for rest…only dogged, single-purposed movement. It could have been a patient, one too far gone into drugs or madness to feel his own pain. Or it could have been something else.

Was it simply paranoia that told him there was something seriously wrong here?

No. It was not simply paranoia, he realized as the other person shuffled into view. Somehow—even he wasn't quite sure how—he recognized Two-Face under the layers of blood and gore that obscured his face, making both sides match for the first time in years.

"Hello there," Scarecrow called, a bit timidly. He and Harvey Dent had never been friendly, but it was precisely in situations like these that people like them could overcome their differences at least long enough for an exchange of information.

Two-Face's two faces slowly turned toward him. And the Scarecrow stumbled back with a thrill of alarm at the utter blankness in both of those eyes.

"Two-Face?" Alerted by the sound of his voice, the blood-soaked villain threw himself against the glass with a wet thwack.

"Ungh…" he said thickly.

Oh, yes. Something was very, very wrong.

The Scarecrow backed away from the wall, glancing around for a weapon, just in case. Of course, there were no weapons in his cell, nothing that would offer him even the slightest protection. But…but…

He detested this feeling of helplessness.

Under ordinary circumstances, the Scarecrow was never completely unarmed, not as long as he had his voice and his mind, the ability to cause crippling fear in fifty words or less. (His best record was three: "chicka chicka bang.")

But faced with the utter lack of intelligence in his fellow inmate's faces, the Scarecrow judged that the intellectual type of fear would have no effect in this situation. Though jumping out from a dark corner and screaming "boogidy boogidy" would probably do little more to frighten this unhinged villain.

But frightening him turned out to be unnecessary, as a shining silver crowbar descended from the darkness to bash his skull in.

A high-pitched, hysterical giggle came twisting out of the shadows.

"Joker? Is that you?" He moved a bit closer to the glass, trying to peer out into the darkness.

The laughing clown and his woman banged up against the glass, heedless of the gooey bits.

"Hi!" said Harley. She was as bright and happy as ever, even with a red smudge in the grease paint on her left cheek that was better left unidentified. And the Joker, of course, was always an equal mix of evil and clown. The blood all over his paper-white face, clashing with the slightly more orangey tint of his lips, enhanced his aura of mad darkness, while doing absolutely nothing to erase the smile on his face.

"Hello, child," the Scarecrow said to her. The Joker, he ignored. There had been friction between them in the past. Better not to remind anyone of that just now.

"Did you know there are zombies out here?" The Scarecrow cocked his head to the side, puzzled.

"Zombies?" he repeated. Was there a voodoo priest among the criminals of Gotham?

Had _Two-Face_ been a zombie?

The body of the orderly moved, and Harley squeaked.

"Puddin! Zombie!"

Joyously, the Joker brought the crowbar down on the orderly's skull. Crack. Spurt. Spasm. Death.

"Got him," the Joker said, and cracked him on the head again. He giggled. And poked the exposed brain matter. Squish.

"Professor Crane, do you know anything about all this?" Harley asked, since the Joker was obviously distracted.

"I just woke up. How did you get out of your cells?"

"The zombies are taking over!" Harley said brightly. The Joker stood up, licking the blood and goo from his lips.

"You know, that tastes absolutely nothing like raspberry jam," he said. "Come on, Harl. He doesn't know anything." The Joker turned to go, pulling his girlfriend after him. She waved goodbye to the Scarecrow.

"Wait!" The Joker looked back over his shoulder with an indifferent grin. "Are they voodoo zombies or flesh eaters?" the Scarecrow asked, rather desperately. _Don't let them leave me in here…_

"Oh, so you do know something about zombies," said the Joker. The Scarecrow put on his knowledgeable face. "All right, Harley, I suppose you were right." He looked almost mournful. "We can use him. Let him out." Harley let out a squee and held out her hand for the Joker's crowbar. "Oh, Harley, Pooh. If I wanted to break through the glass, don't you think I would be doing it myself? In fact, that sounds like a marvelous idea!" He started swinging away at the glass, which was far too thick for him to seriously damage. The Scarecrow took a step back, anyway. If the Joker had gotten it into his head to shatter the glass, then, against all odds, he probably would.

"When did…all this begin?" he asked, not wanting to sound completely ignorant, even though, in truth, he was. They hadn't even answered his question, although from the bite marks and the fact that the orderly had returned from apparent death, he had to assume that the zombies were flesh eaters, rather than voodoo automatons.

"It was like this when I woke up, about an hour ago," Harley said. The Joker took a particularly savage whack at the door, and the Scarecrow was amazed to see a web of fine cracks appear under the crowbar's head. "Pretty much everybody is either dead or undead." She giggled, a little more vacantly than usual, and the Scarecrow realized that she was in a state of something like shock. The horror of the situation would hit her sooner or later, and she would probably have a few minutes of hysterics. The Joker, on the other hand, seemed to be in his element. The cracks spiraled out under his relentless blows.

The Scarecrow didn't bother to examine his own emotional state. He wasn't likely to break down in front of the others, not unless the Batman showed up, and he knew how unlikely that was. Batman never came to Arkham except to drop off a captured criminal mastermind. He was never there to save _them_ when things went all to hell. Like the situation with Lyle Bolton, which had been indirectly solved by that poncy git, Bruce Wayne. That had been almost as humiliating as a rescue at the hands of the Dark Knight would have been.

He opened his mouth to speak to Harley again, mostly to keep her mind off whatever it was that she has seen, since the last thing he wanted was a panic—and wasn't that ironic? But if Harley were to suddenly lose her ability to function, he would be left alone with the Joker…and that was not anyone's idea of a good time, except for hers, of course. Even now, she looked like she wanted to jump him. He was, after all, a magnificent specimen of manhood, in her eyes. Apparently.

He wound up like a baseball player and drove the crowbar through the glass with the force of Babe Ruth on methamphetamines. The shattering was beautiful. The Scarecrow shielded his face as thick shards of glass went everywhere.

"Yay, Puddin!" Harley cheered, clapping her hands like a delighted child. Maybe she wasn't as close to hysterics as he had thought. Maybe she was just insane. It was getting harder and harder to tell the difference. He reached out to knock away enough of the glass to widen the opening so he could escape, and then jerked back when he realized that the Joker wasn't yet finished beating the door into submission.

"Where did you get that crowbar, anyway?" the Scarecrow asked. The Joker froze, looking down at the bloodstained tool in his hands with every evidence of surprise.

"I…don't know."

"I see. Well, how many zombies are there?"

"That, Raggedy Man, is a very good question." The Scarecrow's eyes narrowed.

"Why don't you ask _them_?" Harley asked. The followed the direction of her pointing finger to the stairs, where a veritable army of the undead was shambling toward them, groaning hungrily.

"Did you know they were coming?" the Scarecrow demanded. Harley and the Joker both nodded, looking pleased as punch. "And you still thought it was a good idea to make a lot of noise and _break my door_?" They nodded again. "Lunatics!" He knelt down to quickly rummage through the dead orderly's pockets and came up with absolutely nothing that could have been useful. "Well…shit." He stood up, cursing his own lack of a creative vocabulary as much as anything else.

"What did you say, Professor Crane?" Harley asked. He just glared at her. The Joker cackled—quietly.

"This has the potential to be plenty amusing, fellows, but if we don't want the big, scary zombies to eat our brains, this might be a good time to run."

"Zombies don't eat brains," Crane corrected. "Do you have any idea how hard it would be to bite through a human skull?"

"Actually…"

"Puddin, he doesn't want to hear about Mr. Simon," Harley said. "The zombies…remember?"

"Oh, right, right. It's just…that guy really had it coming. I mean, he couldn't even play a decent game of Simon Says."

"_Zombies,_ Mr. J.!"

"Piffle," said the Joker. He raised his crowbar. "We can take 'em!"

The Scarecrow peered out into the shadowy hallway and quickly counted at least thirty of the walking dead coming right for them. The odds were ten to one, and he was unarmed. In no way did he believe that they could "take 'em."

He considered using the Crime Clown as a distraction…but he didn't think Harley would be too happy with that plan. Besides, in a zombie attack, there was probably safety in numbers, even if those numbers were one hundred percent certified dangerously insane.

"I like your original plan," he said. "This is a good time to run."

"Run where?" Harley asked.

"Anywhere but here." They were wasting time; with every passing second, those things came closer, and the Scarecrow was in no mood to stand around making long-term plans.

"Excuse me? Hello?" came a voice from the next cell over. "Are you listening to me?"

The Scarecrow cringed. He was even less in the mood for Nygma and his constant babbling and superior attitude.

"Let's go," he said, stepping out into the hallway. It was then that it hit him just how slow-moving the zombies were. Huh. Maybe they weren't all that threatening, after all. Then again, they did have superior numbers, and there was always the chance that they could get the living ones cornered or trapped between two groups of the undead.

The three of them walked at a relatively brisk pace toward the opposite end of the hallway. The zombies shuffled after them, moaning and rotting and generally being not-quite-dead.

"_Wait_!" the Riddler cried. He looked quite pathetic, pressed up against his cell door like that, looking so forlorn and abandoned. "You can't just _leave _me here!" The Scarecrow smiled, enjoying the way the other man's voice cracked, revealing his fear. If the zombies had really taken over, then it could be days or more before anyone came along to feed the trapped prisoners. Maybe longer. They could all just starve to death, and wouldn't that be a sight to show the children? Oh, well. No big loss there. Social Darwinism, and all. If they didn't manage to find their own ways out, they didn't deserve to be locked up in Arkham Asylum in the first place.

"Nothing personal, Question Mark," the Joker said as they passed him by. "But you're useless."

"I am _not_ useless," the Riddler shouted, his voice cracking again. "I'll tell you the security code to my door! You can hide in here from the undead! Come on, _please_!"

The Joker stopped, heaved a long-suffering sigh, and whacked a nearby zombie in the face with his crowbar.

"Oh, all _right," _he said. "What's the code?"

"91314549731450."

"Say it again—slower," the Scarecrow said, with his hand poised over the keypad.

"Nine one-thirty one-four five-forty-nine-seven-thirty-one, four-hundred-fifty." The door slid open, and the three of them ducked inside. Harley giggled merrily, watching the zombies throw themselves against the glass.

"Well, we're safe for now," the Scarecrow said. A zombie tried to bite the glass and looked comically disturbed when its teeth wouldn't close. "Now what are we supposed to do?" He frowned. "What were you thinking, just smashing down my wall like that?"

"We could have just kept walking," the Joker pointed out.

"I don't suppose any of you have bothered to memorize the layout of this place?" the Riddler asked. He sounded a bit timid, perhaps realizing that he was out of his depth. Hell, when the Joker was involved, anyone would be out of his depth. The Scarecrow freely acknowledged that he was a second-class villain when compared to the Clown Prince of Crime—at least in the minds of anyone who had not yet been exposed to his own particular brand of villainy. No one who had felt the effects of his fear toxin ever underestimated him again.

"I know all the important parts," the Joker said cheerfully.

"That's not good enough. I know my way around the entire building, including the parts you've never even considered."

"Oh, you're just trying to give us a reason not to leave you behind," the Joker said dismissively.

"Exactly," the Riddler replied. "You think I want to stay here? Besides, you're going to have to break down the door to get out of here, and then I'll be free, and don't think you're going to leave me behind after that."

Then, for no explicable reason, the Joker burst into song.

_"The king of Mars perfects his commentary skills_

_On a gold-plated man monkey full of dollar bills_

_If you're happier dial one now_

_Don't be fooled by gravity_

_And don't be like the sun."_

"Is there a hidden meaning in that?" the Riddler asked. The Joker just grinned and belted out his song while the zombies aimlessly pounded on the wall.

_"And if I could change one thing about the weather_

_Well then I would tell the world and I'd become famous_

_And then I wouldn't need to care about the weather_

_Never ever anymore_

_'Cause I would be relaxing in Hawaii."_

"Um…" The Scarecrow decided to pretend that everything was as it should be. "All right, Nygma. If you can lead us to a more secure spot than this, I suppose you can stay with our group."

_"But that is not my fate_

_I'm trapped inside a cage_

_It isn't even locked_

_But I'm an idiot."_

"Joker? What _are_ you singing?" the Riddler asked.

"And why?" the Scarecrow added.

_"Caesar was a criminal_

_But his mother was a saint_

_Some say that it's subliminal_

_But I say that it ain't."_

"We really don't have time for this…"

"Shush," said Harley.

_"Science was a masquerade_

_Meant to sell you lemonade_

_And it worked_

_They're laughing in their graves."_

"Nyurngh," said one of the zombies. It scratched at the glass, making a delightful nails-on-chalkboard sound. They all winced, except for the Joker, who was paying no attention to the legions of the walking dead. Apparently, he found his song more interesting.

_"Once again I'm falling down_

_A mountain like a metaphor."_

"(God damn leprechauns, god damn leprechauns!)" Harley sang, backing up his tenor very nicely.

_"Shoot me from a cannon_

_To the moon without a helmet on my head_

_Or even oxygen to breathe_

_On the offhand chance that there's no air."_

"Erm…so where are we running _to_?" the Scarecrow asked the Riddler, who was, by now, well enough distracted by the song to have temporarily abandoned his escape plans.

_"Air is like a something something_

_Air is like an I don't know and_

_Air is just like fog but it's not gray and_

_It makes me want to breathe in toxic little fumes_

_And then I breathe out sugar frosted blood."_

"Hello?" the Scarecrow said, forlornly. "This is not the time…"

_"All I ever did to make you laugh is breathe out sugar frosted blood."_

Harley giggled.

"Hello?" the Scarecrow repeated.

_"I'd like to make a toast to all the little garden gnomes_

_Who bravely sacrificed their lives for me_

_I'd like to make a toast_

_But no one seems to have a cup_

_I wonder where my cup has gone_

_I think that it was taken by…"_

"Yurgh!" the zombie insisted, clawing at the glass.

_"The king of Mars_

_Perfects his commentary skills_

_On a gold-plated man monkey full of dollar bills._

_You're just standing there, blocking my view!"_

"We don't have time for this!" said the Scarecrow. The Joker grinned at him.

_"Don't be scared by me_

_Or me_

_And don't be like the sun."_

The Scarecrow actually waited for him to continue this time. But, no. Apparently, that was the end of the song. The Joker took a bow. Harley applauded wildly. The Riddler clapped once or twice, uncertainly.

"What the hell was that all about?" the Scarecrow exploded. "There are _zombies_ trying to get into this room! There should be no such thing as zombies, you know! Zombies do not exist! There are no bloody flesh-eating zombies! This isn't right! It shouldn't be real! I know I haven't released my fear toxin in the asylum—this isn't my doing. Is it some other kind of hallucination? Are we all just fantastically drunk? Because, I swear, I have never been that drunk in all my life!" Whoops, this was the breakdown he had not meant to have in front of the others.

"Calm down, Professor Crane. They're just zombies," said Harley.

"You have half of Harvey Dent's brain stuck to your shoes!"

"Which half?" asked the Riddler, as if that were the most important question in the world.

"No, that belongs to Lizard Man," Harley said.

"Who, Killer Croc? Well, that's a shame," said the Riddler. "He would have been useful in a fight, assuming we could have kept him from eating us."

"Zombies," the Scarecrow said to the empty air.

"A-hem," said the Joker. Everyone turned to look at him. "What did you think of the song?"

"Aside from it being completely insane? It was…chipper," the Scarecrow said. "But why are we not focusing on the fact that the dead have risen and are hungering for our flesh?"

"I like the way you say 'flesh,'" Harley said. The Joker glared at her.

"Harley! Until he's willing to let you drive nails into his face, I don't want to hear you say that to him again."

"Yes, Puddin," she said, properly chastised.

"_Zombies_!" the Scarecrow bellowed.

"What? They're out there. We're in here. For now, it's safe to say things, like, oh, say, enemy lasagna. Robust below wax."

"Oh, God," said the Riddler.

"Semiautomatic aqua, accompany slacks. Why coffee gymnastic motorcycle unibrow. Existential plastic extra nightly cow."

"This is pointless…" Too bad. The Joker showed no signs of stopping.

"Damn! Jettison, goodbye, through! Everything center, who! Spidery concubine! Pale, lickety-split remorse, vitamin after force, already nested human wine!" (Gasp!) "Flight! Luminary uprise. Entanglement broke. Unsophisticated clockwise, holiday way smoke. Abundant various, metaphorically applause. Underneath _hilarious_ oxymoron claws. Rectangular awkward hurt, million controvert, never undressing sneer. Blue therapy, fall inside. Father dethrone, applied. Guillotine apprehensive engineer."

"Word disassociation," said Harley.

"Word disassociation," the Joker sang back.

"Word disassociation," she chirped.

"Word disassociation. Prance, omelette, stalking, chimney sweep."

"Eleven, hatred, earmuff, okay, rathskeller," Harley replied.

"My elusive hula yellow sketching creamy _helium_."

"Gentlemanly communiqué."

"Flouncy! Panicky redundant, psychedelic while," sang the Joker, oblivious to everything, and _especially_ oblivious to the zombies. "Raisin, terrible abundant polyurethane smile." (Oh, that was him all right.) "Scrumptious, mechanical, jungle uncle wish. Paleobotanical backwards licorice. Truth, medical entertain, cleverly _porridge_ brain, jellyfish fingernail! Agnostic oppressive wall, platypus parasol, sauntering sawdust _opera_ monorail playing word disassociation!"

"Word disassociation," Harley repeated dutifully.

"Word disassociation!"

"Word disassociation!"

"_Letter?_"

"No."

"Sly."

"Violin."

"Dust bunny."

"Explode."

"Serenade."

"Why?"

"_Spoil._"

"Play."

"Drip."

"Skullduggery."

"Freezer."

"Monocle."

"Pelican."

"Cool."

"Milk."

"_Freak._"

"Tongue."

"Television."

"Staple-gun."

"Mellow."

"Face."

"Bubblegum."

"Periscope."

"Fight."

"Silly."

"Elephant."

"Akimbo."

"Paranoia."

"Sever."

"Maybe."

"Crush."

"Toy."

"Spoon."

"Melt."

"Feather."

"Clear."

"King."

"Weird."

"Space."

"Love."

"Domino, reality, apostrophe," the Joker said triumphantly. "Dollar jade velocity, _meringue_ assuming gentle mister, advertisement suitcase pining lobsters over murderous distraction flames_ imposter_ a cappella, crouch about bionic ruby quickly antidisestablishmentarianism!" (Gasp!) Harley shimmied her hips. "Word disassociation!"

"Word disassociation," said Harley.

"Word disassociation," the Riddler echoed.

"Word disassociation," the Scarecrow said reluctantly.

"Word disassociation!"

"Word disassociation!"

"Word disassociation."

"Word dis—there are zombies at the door. Could we please try to be serious?" said the Scarecrow.

"You really don't have any sense of humor at all, do you?" the Joker asked. The Scarecrow frowned, seriously weighing his options. The Joker was quite obviously insane—even more so than usual—but he had the only weapon. The Riddler, on the other hand, still had his mental faculties, but he was going to be no use in a fight.

It was times like these that he wished he had henchmen.

Henchmen…

Henchmen?

"Do you suppose those things have been through the other wards yet?" he wondered.

"Oh, yeah," said Harley. "They have. All the henchmen are dead. Only us master criminals are left." The Joker glared at her. She chuckled nervously. "Um…that didn't come out quite like I meant it…boss."

Well, that cancelled out that theory. So would it be better to stick with the group, strike out on his own, or what? As much as he ever hated to admit it, this was a completely new situation for him. _Zombies?_

"Where did these things come from?" the Scarecrow asked, leaning forward to tap on the glass. One of the undead gleefully attempted to bite his finger. Its face bounced back, disturbing those around it.

"You mean you don't know?" Harley asked.

"How would _I_ know?"

"Why do you think we pulled you out of your cell?" asked the Joker. "You're supposed to _know_ things! You're Arkham's resident evil bookworm."

"When's the last time you read a book about flesh-eating zombies?" the Scarecrow snapped irritably. He traced his finger across the glass, watching to see if the zombies would follow the movement. They did.

"I am legend," the Riddler said, so softly it was almost inaudible. They ignored his random babblings completely.

"You couldn't have mentioned this before?"

"There wasn't time, and you didn't ask." He moved slowly; the zombies watched him, occasionally trying to snap at his hand. He made a sudden movement to one side, and they all surged forward, rebounding off the glass.

"'Professor Crane, do you know anything about all this?'" the Joker said, mimicking Harley's voice almost perfectly.

"All right…so you did ask. But I never said I knew anything." He pressed his ear to the glass, trying to make out any actual words within the garbled moans of the dead. Just how much intelligence were these creatures capable of?

"You implied it."

"And you know what happens when you assume—you make an ass out of you and me." _But especially you, clown face._

"I don't think bickering is going to help us," said the Riddler.

"Oh, really? And what do you suggest we do, you two-bit crossword puzzle bandit?" The Riddler glared at him, but his voice remained just barely civil.

"The most important thing we have to do is get out of Arkham. We're sitting ducks in here, if the place has been overrun. Once we get out, we can go our own separate ways—although there will probably be zombies in the city, as well."

"And how do you propose we get past this mass?" the Scarecrow asked.

"Urh!" said a zombie as its teeth broke against the glass. The Scarecrow stepped backwards in alarm.

"Determined little buggers, aren't they?" the Joker said with every evidence of pride, as if he had created them himself. "They probably have taken over the city by now."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: I don't think any messages are going through, so...

Safayi, thanks for reviewing! I hope you'll continue to enjoy it.

MsBrooklyn, as a matter of fact, I don't ever get tired of your (very flattering!) reviews. I'm glad to know that my particular brand of scary/funny/weird is appreciated.

BiteMeTechie, actually, I haven't read any Stephen King lately...(I feel so neglectful.) Raggedy Man is from _Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome_, (pardon me while I make a sound of glee) and the other line is something my mom used to say to me. Although she always said, "Don't you know that when you assume, you make an ass out of you and I?" And I could never manage to convince her that she was saying it wrong.

Doug Bradley is sex incarnate!

SomeKindofIdiot, I'm glad you're excited. Any zombie lover is aces in my book!

Thanks for reviewing, all of you. And for those of you who read and don't review, well...hi. Your feedback would be greatly appreciated...but it's still good just to know you're out there.

(-carefully aims some floodlights at the review button-)

* * *

Meanwhile, in the city…

The few remaining pockets of true life were usually marked by the sound of hysterical screaming, weeping and gnashing of teeth—that kind of thing.

Which is why the two of them managed to surprise each other.

Robin was used to silence and surprises (he worked with _Batman,_ after all) so he managed not to take off her head with his birdarang when he rounded a corner and saw her coming toward him at a dead run, although it was a struggle to suppress his fight-or-flight instincts long enough to make sure she was still alive.

Catwoman was used to _being_ silent and _causing_ surprise. She was most certainly not used to having anyone but the Dark Knight sneak up on _her._ The only thing that kept her from shooting anything and everything that moved, Boy Wonder included, was the fact that she didn't want to attract any more of the walking dead to her with the sound of a gunshot.

His eyes went very wide as he focused on the gun pointed at him. Her mind unfroze enough to feel a bit of pity for the boy, as she realized that he, at least, was still himself. She lowered her weapon slightly, still alert, now aiming at a spot somewhere off to his left.

"Hello, Robin," she said softly. Her voice sounded very tired and very _old._ She had completely lost her usual seductive purr, not that she felt anything like that for this child, but by now it had become a force of habit. Only, now, in the space of a single night, it seemed the habit of a lifetime had been broken. Sex appeal, teasing, and the promise of whips and leather had no effect on the dead.

"Catwoman?" The boy's voice broke. She knew that he was strong, and Batman had trained him very, very well. She knew that most likely only his training and his own inner strength were keeping him standing now, when an ordinary boy his age would probably be hysterical, or, more likely, dead. As it was, he must be very near the edge. He must have seen things tonight that could have driven a grown man insane. She wouldn't have blamed him for crying or showing some other sign of weakness (her own mouth still tasted of vomit…she suspected it would for a long time yet) but he just stood there, staring at her, slightly dazed and clearly terrified, but standing tall through sheer force of will.

And Batman had sent him out into all of this, alone. Necessary, yes—those who were still alive needed all the help they could get. But cruel, she thought. Heartless of him to send the boy out all alone.

And yet, he was coping better than she would have at that age—in fact, about as well as she was now—and Selina actually felt a little proud of him, almost as if he were hers.

"How are you doing, kid?" she asked.

"I…" He shivered once and then collected himself. "Where did you get the gun? I thought you didn't carry a gun."

"I took it off a cop," she said, too harshly. She didn't have to tell him that the cop had been dead at the time, dead and still walking. She didn't want to tell him that the cop had been Jim Gordon.

"W-what are you doing out here?"

"Just helping out, wherever I can. Just like you." She reached out to touch his shoulder. He flinched. "I'm not having much luck." He looked away.

"Me neither," he whispered.

"Come with me," she said. "Batman—" The boy looked up at her, stricken, and it occurred to her for the first time that his mentor might not have _sent_ him out alone. "Is he still alive?"

"I—I think so. He hasn't been answering his communicator, but…he never answers his communicator," Robin said bitterly. "Batgirl isn't answering, either. I think…something may have…_probably_ happened to her."

"I'm sorry," she said, unwilling to lie to him and tell him that his friend was going to be all right, as much as they both may have wanted to believe it. "Batman should have known better than to send children out alone on a night like this." Robin pulled away from her.

"We're not kids! I mean, sure, I'm a kid, but I can…should be able to handle this. Besides, there are people out there who need me." He stared up at her with such youthful defiance that she couldn't help responding with a tired smile.

"But you shouldn't have to do it alone. Come with me, Robin. We can face this together."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Alerts are still teh suck.

MsBrooklyn: Hey, no food or drinks allowed. Management cannot be held responsible for any popcorn-related mishaps.

Phoenix Skyborne: I'm glad to know I've got the proper balance. I didn't want to let this get too silly, but I have never yet been able to pull off straight horror.

Thanks for reading, one and all!

-3.0

* * *

Eventually, the zombies seemed to get bored. A few of them shuffled away into the darkness. A few more wandered over to gnaw on the glass wall of the Mad Hatter's cell across the hall.

"Excuse me? Hello there," the Mad Hatter called out to them, his voice muffled by layers of glass and distance, and overshadowed by the groaning of the dead. "What exactly is going on here?"

"Zombies, Jervis," the Riddler called back.

"Oh, is that all?" the Mad Hatter said, and went back to bed.

"Do you think someone should tell him that they're not the typical mind-control zombies he's always making?"

"Oh, please. Next you'll be suggesting that we break him out of his cell and take him with us," the Joker said. No one answered that directly.

"I wonder if his little chippy things would work on those creatures," Harley mused.

"Do you really want to get close enough to find out?"

"No, I guess not." She sighed and stared at the zombies. They stared back at her. "Jeez…all those things used to be alive," she said.

"What's the big deal, Harl? We kill people all the time. We killed Fred and George last Thursday," said the Joker.

"Yeah, and now they're trying to chew their way through the door. It's just…kind of icky." The Scarecrow looked up from his studies of the zombies' movements.

"Icky? There's nothing icky about science."

"Science is brutal and it cuts like a knife," the Joker said at random.

"Oh, Puddin, not that song. Not now. Besides, Professor Crane, you had a pretty good freak out about the brains on my shoes."

"Braaaaains," the Joker echoed.

"Zombies don't eat brains," the Scarecrow snapped.

"Well, actually…"

"Puddin, he doesn't want to hear about Simon," Harley said hastily.

"Who's Simon?" asked the Riddler.

"You don't want to know," she repeated. The Scarecrow sighed. Now that they were all hell-bent on conversation again, his chances at studying the zombies' reactions to sound stimuli were shot.

"Shall we start thinking about escape plans, then?" he asked.

"If we can get past the zombies, I can get us to the main security room," said the Riddler. "From there, we can find out what's going on outside these walls, and—"

"Who cares about that? I'd rather just leave."

"Haven't you ever heard that knowledge is power? We can't just walk outside into more of this chaos. Besides, from the security room, we can call for help."

"And are you sure you can hack into the system?" asked the Scarecrow. The Riddler just gave him a "duh" look.

"Are _you_ sure you can give small children nightmares? Fat lot of good that skill will do us here, though."

"There's no need to be snarky, Edward. How do we get past the zombies?"

"Just run for it," the Joker suggested. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"A valid point," the Scarecrow conceded sarcastically. "On the other hand, it would be interesting to survive this, so perhaps we could come up with another idea."

"Did you have something good in mind?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Nygma, do you happen to know the Mad Hatter's security code?"

"7940520051. Why?"

"You…may not like this plan," he warned. The Joker smiled.

"I like it already."


	4. Chapter 4

"I just had to pick this weekend to come back to Gotham," Lois Lane muttered to herself. "Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it," she chanted to the rhythm of her shoes pounding on the pavement.

If she were back in Metropolis, she would be safe by now, swept off the streets and out of danger by her personal protector, the Man of Steel.

Assuming there were any of those _things_ in Metropolis. She hadn't heard reports of any other outbreaks before communications had gone down. But then, she hadn't heard reports of the creatures in Gotham, either. They had just sprung up overnight, taking over the city and eating anything that moved.

Like her photographer. He had been busy snapping pictures of the visiting princess (Lois hated being assigned to fluff pieces like that) when a few members of the crowd had simply torn him to shreds and carried the pieces away. Poor guy.

But one thing was for sure—if Lois and the rest of the world survived this, she was going to have one hell of a story.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: I think alerts are teh suck again.

Jen Rock: Hmm, been reading my mind, have you? (-shifty eyes-) I'm glad you like it. I hate killing Gordon (and...the rest...) but when the zombies come along, sadly, they aren't going to restrict themselves to eating just the boring/unimportant people. In an actual zombie invasion, I think it's far more likely that the few survivors would have lost everyone they ever cared about, than to have them say, "Well, the world is over, but at least I still have _you_."

* * *

"I don't like this plan," said the Joker.

"I know, but it will work, and it poses almost no danger to the four of us—"

"We should get Red," Harley interrupted.

"Poison Ivy?" the Riddler said with some trepidation. "What help could she be?"

"We don't have time to think about friendship," the Scarecrow reminded her. She pouted.

"Well, she _is_ my best friend, and I'm not leaving her! But, anyway, you should see her movie collection. _Night of the Triffids, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Troll, Troll 2, Stay Out of the Basement, I Married a Monster From Outer Space…_"

"Dear child, pod people from Mars are not the same as flesh eating zombies," the Scarecrow said.

"It's the same principle! And I bet she knows more than _you_ do."

"At least she can handle herself in a fight," the Riddler said reluctantly.

"_If_ she has plants to manipulate. Which she doesn't, here. I say we leave her," the Joker said.

"Puddin!"

The Scarecrow considered it. Dr. Isley _could_ be useful, and she wouldn't necessarily make his presence redundant. She might understand the conventions of bad science fiction movies better than he ever would, but he had already studied the habits of the undead creatures more thoroughly than anyone else alive, probably. He certainly knew more about them already than any of the others would have learned even if they watched for weeks on end.

"We might be able to use her," he admitted. "If nothing else, it will give those things one more warm body to chase."

"She'd be warmer if we set her on fire," the Riddler muttered. The Scarecrow wondered just what had gone on between the two of them to put him into that state of mind.

"Have you been talking to the Noble Porpoise again?" the Joker asked.

"Loony," the Scarecrow muttered.

"I am not a loony! Well…yes, I am."

The Scarecrow took a deep breath and pushed his glasses further up his nose.

"Let's take Poison Ivy with us. If you want to set her on fire, Nygma, you can do it later. For now, we need to get across the hall."

"I'm on it," the Joker said merrily, and started bashing at the glass with his crowbar. The zombies were immediately attracted to the noise.

"This is never going to work," said the Riddler.

"Of course it isn't. This is the suicide squad." The Scarecrow stalked over to the other side of the room to avoid any further conversation.

Of course, he really didn't believe that any of them were going to survive the night, but that would have been all right if the others had just shown a little _fear_. Sure, the Riddler was afraid, but he seemed more intimidated by them than by the zombies, and more afraid of being left alone than he was of them, and the only real effect of his fear was a certain clingy pessimism that was more irritating than informative. Harley and the Joker weren't affected even that much. You would have thought they faced legions of the walking dead every other Thursday.

The glass cracked under the strain of being attacked by the Joker. Understandable.

And then they ran like mad. They shoved their way through the crushing mass of zombies, dodging grasping hands and bite-happy jaws. The Joker fended them off with more enthusiasm than skill. There was certainly a squee in his smile today. Since his crowbar was the only weapon they had between the four of them, Harley and the Scarecrow used blankets as makeshift whips to drive the zombies back…and that worked about as well as you might expect. Lucky for them, despite his apparent uselessness, the Riddler was as quick as he had promised them he could be. Within seconds, they were inside the Mad Hatter's cell with the door sliding shut, trapping only a few of the things inside with them.

The Scarecrow and Harley together managed to bash one's head against the wall until its brain started oozing out of its forehead. The Joker took out the rest with his crowbar while the Mad Hatter watched, mildly disturbed.

"What did you do that for?" he asked.

"They're zombies, Hat Guy," Harley explained. "Flesh eating zombies. The only way to kill them is to destroy the brain."

"Oh." He yawned. "What are you doing in my room?"

"We're escaping. You want to come, or what?"

"Oh…well, yes, all right." He stood up. "Flesh eating zombies, you say?"

"Yeah, but don't worry. They move slow. You can outrun them, easy."

"Oh…yes, I see." He prodded the remains of one of the zombies with a toe. He even looked a little mournful, probably because this particular zombie had been wearing a hat that was now crushed and stained with blood and brains.

"The only thing is, we want to be able to get past the ones that are here, without attracting any more. So we'd really like for Mr. J. to be able to stop breaking down all the doors, and the Riddler says you have some kind of electronic doohickey that can open doors and stuff."

"How did you know about that?" the Mad Hatter asked, fixing the Riddler with a piercing stare. The Riddler just smirked, apparently feeling that he was more in his element with this level of villain.

"So, are you going to come with us?"

"Yes…yes, that would be nice."

"The Joker should cover our rear," the Scarecrow said, "unless he feels willing to give up his weapon."

"Not my shnoogums," the Joker said, cuddling with the crowbar, which by now was so covered in gore it didn't even resemble the gleaming metal tool it had once been.

"Right, then." Oh, but that was disgusting.

"I'll use the magic doodlybopper," Harley said brightly, snuggling up to her Puddin and his messy crowbar. It would take far more than one of those to pry the two of them apart.

"You lead, Jervis. We'll be right behind you."

The Mad Hatter didn't seem to catch on to the flaw in this plan.

"Let me just get the…'magic doodlybopper,' as you say."

"Wait a minute!" Harley exclaimed. "Where do you keep this thing? I've seen prison movies! Heck, I'm _in_ prison! I don't want to touch this thing if you—" He reached down and pulled a thumb-sized piece of black plastic out of his pillowcase. "Oh. What do you keep it in _there_ for?"

"Would you rather I crammed it up my ass?" he asked innocently.

"Never mind." She took it from him. "So how does this thing work, anyway?"

"You just point it at the door you want to open, press the button, and it emits…no, you wouldn't understand. It magically opens the door for you."

"Neat," she said.

"Yes. Neat."

"'Kay. Well. Time to run!" She opened the door, and the Riddler and the Scarecrow stepped up behind the Mad Hatter and shoved him out into the hall.

The zombies were very interested.

"Run fast," the Scarecrow taunted as the Mad Hatter, absolutely shocked, locked eyes with him.

"You all suck," the Mad Hatter said. Then he took off running down the hall. The zombies, recognizing moving and reachable prey, shambled after him. The four of them in the cell remained silent and kept absolutely still, so they could clearly hear the poor guy's terrified screaming as he ran away. The Scarecrow basked in the sound, straining to hear it as it faded into the distance, hoping to discern the precise moment when the fear would be mixed with pain as they caught him and began to feed.

Yes, it was a shame to waste a life like this, especially the life of someone he rather liked. But sometimes sacrifices had to be made. He could live with it.

"Shall we?" he asked, when he judged that no more zombies would be following the Mad Hatter. The hallway was now considerably clearer; only six of the creatures, all of them former doctors, were left to try to chew through the glass. Harley obliged them by opening the door, and the four of them stepped out into the hall.

The Scarecrow stayed close to Harley; until it became inconvenient, the Joker would protect her as fiercely as he did himself. And even unarmed, the two of them working together could manage to fight off the things without too much risk of being bitten.

The Riddler did a passable job of fending them off with the Mad Hatter's pillow, but it quickly became obvious that, on his own, he was going to become undead in very short order. They came to his rescue as soon as the other zombies had been dispatched.

And that put the fear of god in him, yes it did. Finally, a little healthy terror complete with shaking and nausea. The Scarecrow felt a good bit more secure.

They showed the Riddler no pity as they ran off toward the end of the hall—not the end the Mad Hatter had run to, of course—stopping only to let Poison Ivy out of her cell.

"No time to explain, Red. Let's go," Harley said, dragging her friend out by the arm. Across the way, Maxie Zeus and Arnold Wesker (and Scarface) watched them curiously. Harley waved at "Puppet Head," but they didn't stop to chat.

In fact, they didn't stop at all until they reached the very end of the hall, and the one cell that they had all sworn they would never approach, under any circumstances. This cell had a steel door, not glass, not to prevent the prisoner from escaping, but to keep him separated from the other inmates.

"What are we doing _here_ of all places?" Poison Ivy demanded. Harley shrugged.

"We need him."

"_Lock-Up?"_

"Believe me, none of us _likes_ the idea," the Scarecrow said stiffly, trying his best to cover the blinding terror and helpless rage that welled up in him in equal measure at the very thought of interacting with Lyle Bolton again. "But he's strong enough to help us fight, and he knows the security systems better than any of us."

"You're assuming he'd be willing to help us escape."

"He'll help us if he wants to live," Harley said cheerfully, and opened the door.

The Scarecrow was aware only of a blur of motion before he was physically lifted off the ground by the strength of the blow to his ribs. Then his flight came to an abrupt halt as he collided with the wall, and that was the end of it for a little while.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's note: Apologies for the delay in posting. Thank you for reading and reviewing! Or just reading, as the case may be.

* * *

_

The first thing he was aware of was that the floor was rather cold under his cheek. And rather warm, wet, and sticky under his hand. He sat up slowly, wincing in pain, and then any number of perilous situations occurred to him, and he looked around wildly for the others.

They were standing just behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"You're awake," the Joker said chipperly. "Good. We were just about to leave. It would have been a shame to leave you behind when there are so many more amusing ways to die later."

"Um…yes." He looked down and noticed the spray pattern of the new blood on the floor. "I've missed something spectacular, haven't I?"

"Yep!" said Harley. "Here, Professor Crane, I'll give you a hand." She reached down to help him up. But the hand she put in his was cold, masculine, and attached to nothing at all beyond a point that should have been near the shoulder. He stared at it.

"Is this…"

"I thought you might want a souvenir."

"Ew," he said. There was really nothing else to say. Ew.

But he held onto it as they made their way up the stairs. It couldn't hurt to go armed.

--

Lyle Bolton's arm proved to be quite handy for fighting off zombies. At any rate, he was better off than the Riddler, who was only still alive because the others fully realized that they needed his help to get to the security room.

The rest of Bolton would have been useful, too, but based on the way he had reacted when they had opened his cell door, it wasn't hard to tell that his attitudes toward them had not softened during the years of his imprisonment. They were better off without him. Although, to be perfectly honest, this hadn't been exactly unexpected. The Scarecrow had been looking forward to watching him die.

But using his arm to beat down zombies was almost as good. Feeling the bones snap was wonderful. For the rest of his life—however long that might be—Jonathan Crane would be able to say that _he_ had broken _Lock-Up's_ arm.

Life, in a manner of speaking, was good.

--

Catwoman and Robin quickly worked out a rhythm that served them well in their zombie-killing endeavors. They would come on a group; she would shoot once, taking out the healthiest-looking of the things, and the rest would be attracted to the sound of her gun. Then she would guard their rear, making sure they always had an avenue of escape while Robin took out the rest of them with his birdarangs, sending the hardened steel edges deep into their skulls.

It was hard on the boy, making so many kills, even if they were already dead. But he was doing very well—Batman had taught him to be quite the young warrior, highly skilled and flexible but strong—he would continue killing these things as long as he was still physically able to stand and fight. But she knew that, unlike the previous Robins, this boy took more strongly after the detective aspect of the Bat than the warrior side. He was no soldier, he was no killer, and he was going to break down eventually, although she thought he could hold out until he had a moment of calm and relative safety.

So she pushed him harder, refusing to give him even a moment to think of all the kills that he had made. When the creatures threatened to overwhelm him, she used her whip to pull them off of him. She couldn't kill them with that, and they weren't capable of being frightened away, but she wasn't willing to use the gun except when it was absolutely necessary, or when they were ready to attract a fresh group of the walking dead.

When all the zombies in the room were dead, she helped the Boy Wonder collect his birdarangs—though messy, they could always be reused—and then they moved on.

Slowly but surely, they were clearing this apartment building, turning it into a safe place for the living to hide. Working together, she could almost believe that they were doing some real good.

The hard part would come when the building was clear, and it came time for them to go outside and search for survivors to rescue.

--

"You ass," said Poison Ivy. The Riddler flinched.

"How was I supposed to know the power would be out?"

The Scarecrow, Harley, and the Joker leaned against the door, trying to keep the zombies from pushing their way into the security room. The Joker whacked at their rotting hands with his crowbar, breaking knuckles and splitting skin, but not deterring them in the least.

"Is this the part where we die?" Harley asked.

"Oh, no, Pooh. Not just yet." He moved out of the way while Poison Ivy used the legs of a chair to poke at the zombies' hands until the door had enough space to slam shut. "See?" Poison Ivy wedged her chair up under the doorknob as the Joker locked the door.

"But how do we get out of here?" They looked around the dark, windowless room. Dead monitors stared back at them, mockingly. There was no hope there.

"There should be a weapons locker around here somewhere," the Riddler said. The Joker snatched the Mad Hatter's magic doodlybopper from Harley and went to unlock it. Meanwhile, the Scarecrow examined the mangled arm he had been using. It wasn't going to be much use as a weapon anymore, but some morbid fascination told him he should hang onto it anyway. It was something he was going to enjoy looking at for a good long while.

"You know, if you're going to go beating zombies with a severed arm, you should really use the wet end," Harley said.

"Do you think so?" The Scarecrow examined the gooey end of the arm carefully, realizing for the first time that he had managed to get the interior bits all over himself, ruining his inmate's uniform, not that he had much of a sentimental attachment to the thing. "Yes, I see what you mean. But I would prefer not to hold his hand." Harley giggled—probably because she had been conditioned to laugh at anything that was even mildly amusing, he realized, and not because she appreciated his rather dry sense of humor.

The Scarecrow yawned—now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off, he realized that he was completely exhausted. It was hard enough to sleep in Arkham; being woken up in the middle of the night and forced to flee from a zombie horde had not exactly been refreshing. Of course, the others must surely be about as tired as he was.

"Handguns…shotguns…billy clubs…neat," the Joker said. "But there's not nearly enough here to fight off a whole army of the walking dead…but it will sure be fun to try."

"We could stay here until morning," the Scarecrow ventured. "It is a relatively secure area, and we will stand a much better chance against those things if we take the time to rest. And maybe we can get the power back on," he added, glaring at the Riddler.

"Not my fault," the Riddler muttered.

"Why don't we just stay here forever," the Joker countered. "Pammy there can grow us a nice little vegetable garden, and Harley and I can repopulate the Earth from inside Arkham. Wouldn't that create a nifty new race? And you two can baby-sit…unless we get hungry waiting for the garden to grow. What do you think, comrades?"

"I think I'll be ready to leave in the morning," said the Scarecrow. The Joker pouted.

"Spoilsport. I guess that's not long enough for Mary, Mary quite contrary here to make her garden grow, anyway."

"I couldn't grow plants without sunlight even if I wanted to help _you_," Poison Ivy snarled.

"Don't fight, you two," Harley said, a pleading note entering her voice. Poison Ivy's expression softened when she looked at her friend. The Joker's expression didn't change, but the way he looked on the outside almost never reflected his internal state very accurately.

Interesting. He, the Riddler, the Joker, and Poison Ivy all quite plainly hated each other. Grant Walker would be building an ice skating rink in Hell before the four of them decided to work together as a team. But Harley was the proverbial glue that held them together as a cohesive group. The Joker was her lover, Poison Ivy was her best friend, the Scarecrow was something like a mentor, having shared a similar profession, and the Riddler, while not particularly close to her, was enough of a friend, and closely related enough to the Joker in her mind, that she would defend him, though not to the point of standing against the others, and probably not to the point of risking her life against the undead.

"We'll stay the night," the Joker said, placatingly. Harley grinned, displaying a charming set of dimples.

"Oh, Puddin."

"It might be a good idea for one of us to slip out and gather some supplies," Poison Ivy suggested. "And maybe free some of the other inmates to join us—you know, the ones who aren't completely useless." Grumbling to himself, the Riddler sidled over to the security system and began inspecting the wiring, straining to see it in the dark. The Scarecrow spotted a flashlight and handed it to him.

"Thanks," the Riddler muttered.

"Who else could we possibly need?" the Scarecrow asked Poison Ivy (thinking more of his own security than the Riddler's.)

"Mr. Freeze, maybe. Those things only eat meat that's still warm—that's why they don't attack each other. So there's a chance they would leave him alone, and even if they didn't, he has that nice protective suit. The only problem with him would be getting him away from his wife." The Scarecrow pictured Mr. Freeze sitting in front of the cryogenic tank that held his wife's body, with a freeze gun in his lap, like a frontiersman with a shotgun guarding the homestead against Indian raiders. No, Freeze was not going to abandon his beloved bride to help protect _them_ from the undead.

"We don't need anyone else," Harley said, surprising him with her sudden lack of compassion. She was so uneven, that child, one moment sweet and innocent, the next moment an arch villain to contend with the best of them.

"All right, one of us is going to have to go for food and supplies. I don't suppose there are any volunteers," Poison Ivy said dryly. The five of them stared at each other for a few moments in uncomfortable silence.

"How do we even know that whoever we send will come back?" asked the Riddler.

"Would _you_ really want to stay out there with the zombies?" He flushed.

"There could be a way out, or a safer place to hide. The _food_ could be in a secure area. Faced with that, do you think any of us would be willing to risk our lives fighting through a horde of flesh eating zombies to save the rest?"

"Just one of the perils of being friendly with lunatics," said the Joker.

"We could send _you_," the Scarecrow said darkly. "At least we know you'd come back if we held something important hostage." The others nodded thoughtfully; Harley beamed, and the Joker let out a blood-curdling cackle.

"You don't know me very well, do you?"

"Not Harley," the Scarecrow said with malicious pleasure. "Are you forgetting that she's the one carrying your rubber chickens?" The Joker's face fell.

"You're a real killjoy, you know that?"

"It's what I do," the Scarecrow said smugly. It was quite a thrill to be able to wipe the smile from the Joker's face.

"I'll go, too," said Poison Ivy. "You know _I'll_ come back for Harley, and the two of us aren't likely to decide to run off together." The Joker grinned again and opened his mouth to say something smarmy. She cut him off with a glare. "I'm volunteering because two people can carry twice as much as one, and because even with a rubber chicken hostage, I don't trust you. And if you try anything, I won't hesitate to break both your kneecaps and leave you for the flesh eaters, understand?"

"You mean, no…" He made shifty eyes and leaned over to whisper something in her ear. She shoved him away.

"No _nothing, _Joker. I mean it." He looked crestfallen, but couldn't stop giggling. Poison Ivy rolled her eyes. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, after all."

"Oh, come on, Pammy," he said sweetly, and leaned over to smile at her.

"Puddin!" Harley said sternly.

"Only joking," he pouted. "Women," he said knowingly to the Riddler and the Scarecrow. "Am I right?" The two of them looked back and forth between Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, and wisely refrained from answering.

"Let's get out of here, clown boy," Ivy said, probably already regretting her decision to go with him.

"Hang on a second!" He turned to Harley and took her hands in his. "Pooh…this could be dangerous. If I don't come back…promise me you'll take care of the rubber chickens." Poor Harley looked as if she were going to cry at any moment.

"Oh, Puddin! You've just got to come back!"

"Of course I'm coming back," he said blankly. "Why wouldn't I?"

"But you just said…"

"Who cares what I _said,_ Harley? The important thing is, when I get back, I want you to open the door for me. Don't let these two lunkheads try to talk you out of it, either. You let me back into this room no matter what."

"O-okay. Sure thing, Mr. J."

"Good girl." He tweaked her nose and turned to go. A troubled look crossed her face.

"Hey, wait a second, Mr. J." He turned to look back at her expectantly. "How will I know it's you?"

"Harley, girl, please. What do you think a zombie is going to say? 'Knock, knock.' 'Who's there?' 'Braaaaaains…'" Harley looked dreadfully embarrassed.

"Zombies don't eat brains," the Scarecrow said again. The Joker looked totally unconvinced.

"He's right, you know," said Poison Ivy. "The first time any zombies ever stumbled around moaning, 'Brains!'—or said anything else, for that matter—was in _Return of the Living Dead._ That was a _comedy._" She pouted in the face of the Joker's insane grin. "But I guess that says it all right there. Just let him have this one, Professor." She winked at him, and the Scarecrow was amazed to realize that he had just shared a Moment with Poison Ivy.

"You two just hurry back," Harley said. "And be careful." That part was just for Poison Ivy, her best friend and quite clearly the more sensible of the two.

"We'll be back soon, Harl," Poison Ivy promised with a reassuring smile.

"Don't forget to let us back in," the Joker added. Harley basked in the warmth of his smile, and the Scarecrow mentally dismissed every escape plan that involved keeping the Joker and Poison Ivy locked out of the security room.

"Get me some batteries while you're out," the Riddler said without looking up from his work as Poison Ivy pulled her chair out from under the doorknob and the Joker turned the lock. They waved, and then in a flash of glorious bravado, they disappeared.


End file.
